That Time With the Flour
by chaser1980
Summary: George opened his mouth to call out to Hermione, as he stumbled through the floo into her flat, but two things stopped him. One was off-key singing and the other was the delicious smell of baked goods. Hm, something with chocolate if he wasn't mistaken.


_I'm not Rowling and I don't own any of this, except the plot, sadly. I'm still plugging away on a Bill/Hermione called "Homecoming," but this popped into my head and George just wouldn't let it be. :-) It's a short one-shot and fluffy. I need to give George regular time with Hermione, it seems. Thanks for reading!_

oOoOo

George opened his mouth to call out to Hermione, as he stumbled through the floo into her flat, but two things stopped him. One was off-key singing and the other was the delicious smell of baked goods. Hm, something with chocolate if he wasn't mistaken. And he rarely was when it came to sweets. But, really, the singing was what stumped him most. It had to be Hermione, seeing as how he was in her flat, but Great Merlin, it was a good thing Hogwarts never had a choir. George's eye twitched at a particularly massacred note and he tiptoed towards the kitchen, no longer planning to announce his arrival in advance. This could be great blackmail material, after all.

He and Fred had been stuck on a potion for most of the afternoon and after consulting every book they could think of in their collection, they had come to the conclusion that it was probably best to just ask Hermione. She had an entire catalog of books in her head that they'd never find, even if they spent the next five years scouring libraries. So Fred had stayed to mind the shop with Ron and George had come to pick the brain of the most brilliant witch he knew.

He peeked around the corner, looking into the kitchen carefully, but he needn't have worried. Her back was to him. He watched, growing more and more amused as she continued to sing muggle Christmas carols, alternating with humming when she didn't know the words, only to then belt out the familiar chorus, occasionally tapping a bare foot on the floor. She was, indeed, making chocolate biscuits the muggle way and he nearly announced himself then, if only to grab a few of the ones she'd just taken from the oven, but something in him held him back.

Her abundant hair was pulled up into a messy bun near the top of her head, though pieces were escaping in every direction, as usual. She had on a denim skirt and a rather faded t-shirt. If he wasn't mistaken, it was the "Make love, not horcruxes" shirt Ginny had bought her two Christmases ago and he grinned at the thought, remembering the blush on her face as she'd opened it in front of everyone at the Burrow on Christmas morning, the first Christmas since the end of the war. She and Ron had still been flirting with the idea of fancying one another then, or so he thought, and he and Fred had taken the mickey out of their brother for the rest of the day until Ron finally jerked them aside, told them he was seeing Luna Lovegood, he and Hermione had agreed they were only friends, and to bugger the hell off.

It seemed two and a half years of regular meals eaten in peace, rather than berries and mushrooms gathered while hunting dark wizards, had served to make the shirt a wee bit more fitted than he remembered, and certainly not in a bad way. Hermione bent over a bit then, to push another tray of biscuits into the oven and George suddenly swallowed hard, not able to keep his eyes from roaming over her denim-clad bum and slender legs.

Godric, what was he doing?

George straightened up quickly. Hermione had moved back to the counter and was sifting flour into a bowl of wet ingredients, as she prepared a second batch, still humming. He cleared his throat loudly and she shrieked. She jumped and whirled around, the flour in her sifter flying everywhere.

'Make love, not horcruxes,' indeed, spelled out right over her curvy chest.

"George Weasley!"

He winced. He hadn't heard his name like that, from her, since his seventh year. "Er, hi there, Hermione. Are you busy?"

She gaped at him, then looked down at her now flour-covered front, making a noise of frustration. A cloud of flour continued to drift down, over her and onto the floor. His lips twitched, but the look of pure murder in her eyes had him swallowing his laughter quickly.

"Gosh, no, George, not busy at all," she said, sarcastically, setting down her sifter and tapping her fingernails against the counter, right next to her wand. No, laughing now would definitely be bad. And he still needed her help. Best to start with an apology.

"Sorry, love, didn't mean to startle you. I guess you didn't hear me come in through the floo?"

A blush appeared below the flour dusting her cheeks as she realised why she hadn't heard him enter her flat. "Um, no, can't say I did. I was...singing."

He couldn't help it, her wand at the ready or not—he grinned. "Is that what you call it?"

Her eyes narrowed, but the blush only intensified. She turned back to the counter, grabbing a towel and using it to clean the flour from her face and he chanced a few steps forward, the smell of biscuits making him braver than he would have been ordinarily in the face of Hermione Granger's wand. He used his wand to whisk away flour from the floor and cabinets, then looked back to her just in time to see her using the towel to brush flour from her front. Once again, he nearly forgot himself.

He'd first met Hermione Granger when he was thirteen years old. A decade and a war ago. And he had admired her for her brilliance, been in awe of her bravery, and been afraid of her on more than several occasions. But he had never noticed how pretty she was, even now, when she was blushing and covered in flour, wearing a shirt his mother called inappropriate. _Except that time at the Yule Ball_, whispered a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Fred. He wondered what voice twinless people heard when their consciences spoke. _And after the battle at Hogwarts, when everyone was dirty and bloody and tired, but _alive_, and then that time at the Burrow last summer when-_He tried to cut off the Fred in his brain, but he was relentless, much as his flesh and blood counterpart. _And you know you rather got a thrill from making her angry in your seventh year and you know you sometimes worried about her more than your brother when they disappeared to hunt horcruxes, even if you felt guilty about it afterwards, and you also know there's a damn good reason you haven't had a successful date in two years, since you learned she and Ron had split._

Merlin's beard, he needed to get hold of himself and get Conscience Fred to bugger off!

"You clean the floor and the counter, but not me?" she asked, breaking into his inner monologue—or was it a dialogue?—and George shook his head a little, to clear his thoughts. He was one of the Weasley twins, damn it, he wasn't supposed to be this slow and reflective. He schooled his featured back into a grin of nonchalance and winked at her.

"Thought you looked cute like that."

Wait, no, that's not what he was supposed to say! Bloody hell.

She arched an eyebrow, then rolled her eyes. Why did she do that? Did she think he was only joking? _Of course she did. That's what we do, Forge_.

"Well, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to tell me what you're doing here so I can get back to my baking?"

She shook her head to dislodge the flour covering her curls and waved her wand at the bowl, saying a spell that would tell her how much flour she had already added—she had lost count with the interruption. George saw the numbers appear over the bowl and reached for her measuring cup, scooping out some of what she needed and holding it out. She picked up her sifter and he dumped the flour in.

"Thanks," she murmured, and began her sifting again.

"Well, Fred and I got stuck on a potion, and we thought maybe you would know what we needed to add next, but I smelled biscuits and heard singing and I just couldn't help but sneak in and see what on earth you were doing."

"Oh, gods, I can't believe you heard me singing," she moaned. "I'm pants at it."

"Wasn't that bad," he replied, but even he could hear the laughter just below the surface of his words.

"Liar. Get another scoop of flour."

"Bossy. So, may I have a biscuit?"

"Really? You've made a mess of me and my kitchen, you're asking for a favor, you poke fun at my singing, and now you want a biscuit, too?"

"I'm an optimist?"

"Prat. Yes, you can have a biscuit. Don't know why I was making them anyway, I just felt like it. It's near Christmas and my mum always baked a lot of cakes and biscuits and sweets at Christmas."

The grin slipped from his face as she referenced her mother, now Monica Wilkins of Canberra, Australia, who, thanks to a permanent memory charm, had no recollection of ever having a daughter, much less one who was a war heroine and the most brilliant witch of her age. She was still talking.

"Really, I was probably going to send most of them to the shop for you, Fred, and Ron anyway."

"Thanks," he said, the teasing tone gone completely now. "They smell delicious."

She handed him the spoon as he ate a biscuit and he continued stirring her second batch as she leaned over again to take a tray out of the oven. The flat was warmed with spells and the heat from Hermione's charmed muggle oven added to it, making it nice and toasty. Given the view he was getting a second look at, of her bare legs, George was eternally grateful for the appliance, even if it was making him sweat a little under his Weasley jumper. She poured chocolate chunks into the bowl and he stirred them in.

She began to scoop out balls of dough onto a sheet and he helped himself to another biscuit, leaning against the counter beside her.

"I'm definitely sending you back home with most of these," she said. "Merlin knows I don't need them. Ginny wants to get in shape to try out for the Harpies in March and she's suddenly besotted with the idea of going to a muggle gym, so I promised her I'd go with her after New Years and help her along. Resolutions and all, you know. I could certainly stand fewer sweets and more jogging, besides."

"Don't be daft," he said, before he could stop himself. "You look great."

She looked flustered again. "Thanks. Well, it's still the holiday season now, I suppose. Time for fitness later. You know, I've always liked the dough uncooked best," she said, trying to change the subject. She dipped a finger in the bowl. He went to do the same, as that's how he'd always preferred it, too, but she smacked his hand. "Stop! You haven't washed your hands! Use a spoon or—"

Gods, he didn't know what possessed him, but standing there beside her, smelling cinnamon-scented shampoo lingering on her flour-dusted hair and recalling every single instance Conscience Fred was making him remember, he just didn't think. He grabbed her hand, pulled her finger into his mouth, and licked the dough off it. She froze, her hand still in his and he watched her carefully as he swallowed, hoping she wasn't about to hex him. But he didn't let go of her hand.

"Or—or that," she said, breathlessly. She moved a half-step closer, putting herself only inches from him. "Is this a joke or—or a prank?"

He shook his head quickly, but couldn't seem to speak.

"Because—" She looked like she was steeling herself for something and summoning every bit of Gryffindor bravery she'd ever had. "Because this might be something I've wanted for longer than I'd care to admit and if you're just having me on—"

He shook his head again, his heart leaping as he processed what she'd just said. Conscience Fred had finally gone silent and George realised he'd been an idiot not to see this sooner. He had no reason to hate Krum the way he did, except that he'd got to take Hermione to the Yule Ball, and he hadn't had a proper night's sleep from the night of Bill's wedding until after the final battle, when he'd known she was finally safe. He _had_ riled her up on purpose at Hogwarts because it had been the only way he knew to get her attention. He still found it hard to completely forgive Ron for leaving her in the middle of their hunt and he hoped Bellatrix was burning in hell, not so much for what she'd done to the rest of the wizarding world, but mostly for what she'd done to Hermione. And lastly, he really, really loved her in that t-shirt.

"You know, I still can't stand Viktor Krum," he said, quietly, his heart now thudding in his ears. She gasped a little as she sorted through the implications of that sentence. But he felt her free hand moving to clutch his jumper and not her wand and, emboldened, he bent down, closed his eyes, and kissed her. It should have been awkward, kissing a girl he'd known since she was a bushy-haired eleven-year-old swat, but instead it was bloody fantastic. The toe curling kind of fantastic. She tasted of earlier samples of dough and her hand grasped his jumper more tightly as she leveraged herself up onto her toes, to better reach him and kiss him back with equal enthusiasm. He finally dropped her hand, only to tangle his in her messy, floury hair and pull her flush against him with his other arm.

She gasped a little and he moved his tongue against hers, loving every bit of the soft, feminine figure that was pressed up against him. He'd hold Ginny personally responsible if this gym nonsense made any of it go away. His hand ran down her neck from her hair, brushing just slightly over the swell of her breast, then continuing down to her hip. Good, still no hexing. In fact, now there was slightly moaning. Excellent.

"Oh!" she suddenly gasped, breaking away from the best snog he'd ever had in his life.

He blinked at her, confused, then sorted that he'd back her straight into the somewhat hot oven door. He reached behind her and flipped the dial, turning the oven off. Then his hand was on her waist and he was moving for her lips again.

"Wait, how did you know how to do that?" she asked, holding his upper arms firmly and pulling her head back, out of his reach. He gave her a mildly frustrated look.

"What, turn the oven off? Muggle Studies, I guess."

He went in for her lips again, but, again, she held him back. "Since when did you pay any attention in a class that wasn't Charms, Transfiguration, or Potions?"

"Well, it was interesting! If it makes you feel better, I paid absolutely no attention in Divination and slept through most of History of Magic. I'm not _mad_."

"George! I can't believe you'd sleep through—"

"Hermione?" he interrupted and her grip on his arms slackened as he caught her gaze, only inches from his own, and let every unguarded emotion fill his eyes.

"Hm?" She couldn't seem to pull together a coherent thought.

"Shut up."

Before she could even open her mouth to protest, he was kissing her again. It took only a second for her to move her hands from his arms to around the back of his neck, one of her hands raking through his red hair, much shorter than it had been back when he was sleeping through History of Magic and pulling pranks during her patrols. Then she moved a hand down, slipping it into the back pocket of his trousers and pulling his hips against hers. Again encouraged, he ran his hand down from her hip and under the edge of her skirt, still having to lean her against the oven, as he wasn't entirely sure his weakening knees could hold them both up on their own.

"Hey, Hermione! Have you seen Geor—" Fred found his voice had suddenly gone missing as he stopped short in the doorway. He watched his twin and Hermione freeze and break away from snogging each other senseless to look towards him. He noticed in their frozen state, that Hermione looked as dazed as he'd ever seen her and one of George's hands had disappeared under the side of her skirt. He raised an eyebrow as he fought back a smirk. His eyes slid over to the biscuits on the cooling rack beside them and he walked forward to snag several. He gave them a wide grin.

"I think I'll just enjoy these back at my own flat," he said, moving back towards the door. "Do carry on!"

Then he was gone from the kitchen and they heard Hermione's floo activate in the living room. Somehow, they hadn't heard it the first time. George looked back toward Hermione, his earlier bravado gone.

"Um, well, I, uh—"

"Now who's talking too much?" she murmured, pulling his head down to hers again and peppering kisses along his throat.

"But, I—"

"George?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."


End file.
